


Sideline

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [14]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beating, Breathplay, Choking, Come Swallowing, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Facials, Group Sex, Hair-pulling, M/M, Masochism, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Violence, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Polyamory, Prostitution, Punching, Rentboys, Rough Sex, Verbal Humiliation, kicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:45:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I take out my wallet, I can almost feel his eyes on it, on my hands as I pull out a couple of notes, searing into my skin like white-hot little torches. I wonder if this is how the boss feels, how Joe feels, when they deal with chisellers personally. I wonder if they get the same sour kick out of it. I wonder if the buzz of it gets them as hot as it's getting me right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Sorry to barge in on you without an appointment," Yates says, and at first he's all smiles, but he's not convincing anyone. Not with the making nice, and not with the tough guy act he's got just under the surface, either. I don't think he's even convincing his own boys. The big one with the muscles looks worried, like he's not sure this was such a good idea after all, and the little blond guy with the flashy suit is looking around the office with the kind of naked greed I'd recognise anywhere.

"Not at all." The boss just waves a hand like he's shooing the idea away. "Who needs an appointment to see an old friend?"

"Yeah, that's right, we _are_ old friends, aren't we?" Yates smiles a bit wider. "So I suppose I should feel bad about this, but it can't be helped. Sorry, pal, but I'm dissolving our agreement—"

Yates pulls his gun as he talks, but he's just too slow. Joe's knocked it out of his hand and got him in an arm-lock before I've even made a move on the other guy. And I say _other guy_ , singular, because only the big guy even bothered to pull his own gun. He wheels round to look at Yates, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and I'm not going to miss a cue like that, so I pull my blackjack and lunge at him. By the time the big guy turns back round to me, I can see in his eyes he's already given up. He's not going to pull the trigger for someone who's already lost. He drops his piece before I've laid a hand on him, and I can't help laughing, because for all Yates' swagger, it looks like he's bought a couple of duds. And you know, I'm not sure which is worse—the big guy at least _tried_ before his nerves gave out, but the blond guy, he's just standing there like a kid at the edge of a playground fight, watching it all play out with big hungry eyes and empty hands.

"I'm more than happy to dissolve our agreement, Sidney," the boss says, perfectly unruffled. "All you had to do was ask."

Me and Joe swap a glance, and now Joe's smiling that nasty smile he always does when things turn out this way. It's a good thing he's in his job and I'm in mine, because I've got no stomach for what comes next.

"You two. Out." Joe barks at the two lackeys, and when he wrenches Yates's arm up nice and high, the guy gives a frightened little yelp as if he's only just figured out what the penalty is for losing this gamble.

"Eddie! Larry!" he calls out as his boys start to leave, like they're a couple of dogs who've slipped their leashes. "What are you doing, you can't let him— I gave you—"

"Not a whole lot, in today's money. Nowhere near enough for this." The short guy gives Yates a frosty little smile, and beckons his friend. "Come on, Eddie."

The big guy wastes no time making himself scarce, but Larry pauses at the door. "I'm sorry about all the bother, sir," he says, throwing the boss a spicy look, long and hot and shameless enough that even _I'm_ impressed.

"Why don't you come back tomorrow," the boss says, "and we'll see about finding you some more suitable work."

Me and Joe trade glances again, and now there's a raised eyebrow thrown in there as well. Then Yates makes a pathetic little noise as he watches his last ally leave, and all of a sudden I'm not thinking about suitable work for greedy blonds, I'm thinking about how much I don't want to tag along when Joe dissolves that agreement for good.

"Surely I paid you enough to afford more reliable boys," the boss says, smiling that perfect cold smile down at Yates. He doesn't even give the order out loud, he just nods at Joe, but that's enough to set Yates off protesting and begging, insisting that he'll fly right if the boss will just overlook it this one time. I can still hear him making a racket as Joe drags him out of the office and down the back stairs, and then there's a dull thudding sound and everything goes quiet. Even if I'm not there to watch, my imagination's active enough that I get a lurid picture painted for me whether I like it or not, and I'm still thinking about that, still trying _not_ to think about it, when the boss's voice cuts in and snaps my attention back where it belongs.

"Lock the door," he says, sitting back in his chair.

Everyone's got their own way of unwinding after a bit of excitement, and the old man's isn't too far from my own. So I do as I'm told, and once I've locked the door and drawn the blinds, I pick up Eddie's gun and bring it across to the boss like a dog fetching a stick.

"That's twice this month." I say, putting the gun down on the desk. "You sure you don't want me carrying one of these, just in case?"

He picks the heater up and looks at it for a minute, as if we don't both already know what the answer's going to be. Then he puts it away in his drawer like it's a bit of paperwork he can't be bothered to deal with right now, and gives me one of those looks that feels like a spotlight shining right in my eyes. "No, that's not what I keep you around for."

"Oh yeah?" I give him a nice casual shrug and a grin to match. "What am I here for, then? My sparkling wit?"

The boss just looks at me, silent and stony-faced, and the longer his eyes are on me the faster my heart seems to pound. "Down," he orders, pointing at the floor in front of him. I can feel the urge to obey him tugging at me, pulling me down where he wants me, but the urge to defy him is buoying me up just as hard, and I'm not giving in without a fight.

"Or what?" I laugh, and I throw in a roll of my eyes just to seal the deal.

"I'm not asking, boy."

He looks at me, and his eyes feel like a pair of heavy hands on my shoulders, forcing me down. I sink to my knees—with those eyes on me I can hardly do anything else—but I keep that smirk fixed on my lips, and once I'm at his feet I look up at the boss and give him my best _so-what_ stare. It's like I've got one of those cartoon angels on one shoulder and a devil on the other, only one side's telling me to beg for the old man's cock, and the other's saying _go on, make him beat it out of you, make him crack you, make him break you wide open_. The boss can see those two sides fighting it out, he must be able to see it. With the way he smiles down at me like I'm a dog doing tricks, he must be able to see right through me.

"So?" I give him a raised eyebrow to go with that smirk. "Now that I'm down here, what—"

The old man grabs hold of my hair, belts me hard enough to make my head spin, and shoves me down until my face is buried in his lap. The feeling of his cock jutting against my cheek, hard and hot even under that thick fabric, that's more than I can resist. I rub my face against him, crushing my lips against the ridge of his cock, murmuring a little groan into the cloth, and my fingers are working his zip down before I've even consciously decided to behave myself. It's like my hands have got a mind of their own, and they're on the side that wants me to be a good little whore, the side that wants me to get to work and earn my keep. Right now I don't feel like arguing with them. Right now all I want is a taste of him.

"You can't hold out for a minute, can you?" the old man says, cupping the back of my neck in his hand, as I slide my lips down his cock. "All that backchat, all that tough talk… And deep down you're nothing but a cock-hungry little slut."

I can't argue with that. Not with my head full of the taste and the scent of him, the bitterness of smoke and soap, the richness of cologne and sweat. Not with my lips stretched around his shaft, not with my throat straining to take it, not with the heat and the weight of his cock against my tongue. I can't argue with that at all. I get to work and start giving the boss the five star treatment, keeping my hand firm around his shaft of his cock and my tongue busy over the head, exactly how he's trained me. I suck his cock like I've been made to order, just to his specifications, but any fool could see this isn't all for him. Any fool could see how much I need this, and the old man can see right through me.

Maybe he likes to see me putting my back into it, but not half as much as he likes taking the reins himself. He circles one hand around the base of his cock, and grabs my hair with the other, tight enough to make me yelp. The way he yanks my head up and down, the way he fucks my mouth like he wants my throat bruised inside and out, the way he holds me down every so often, just long enough to get me choking and gasping for air, it pushes my buttons just right. I brace myself with one arm against the seat of the chair, and when I slip the other hand down to my lap, the boss spots it right away.

"Filthy little whore," he laughs, yanking hard on my hair. "Can't resist pawing at yourself, can you?"

I murmur a 'no' against his skin, but with my mouth full it just sounds like a moan, and that only makes him laugh again, rough and deep and nasty. It must be the answer he was looking for, though, because the next thing I know I'm being yanked up by the hair. He looks at me for a moment, just looks at me, and then he grabs hold of my throat and squeezes. The way his fingertips dig in under my jaw, the way his hand presses me like a vice, I can't help moaning. Then his other hand speeds up, working faster over the shaft of his cock, slicking my saliva over the length of it until his skin glistens, dark and wet and so hot I can almost feel it, and the sight of that's just too much.

"Come on," I say, hoarse and breathless and desperate. "Come on, old man, give it to me."

His fingers tighten again, enough that I couldn’t get another word out if I tried, enough to wring a choked little groan out of me, and when he starts to come it's like I'm half-feeling it too, like every shudder and pulse goes through me as well. His come spatters across my face, landing hot and heavy all over my lips and tongue and chin, and now the taste of the old man is all I can think about, all I've got room in my head for, all that exists in the world. I tip my head up, keeping my mouth open and my eyes fixed on his until the last spray hits my tongue and trickles down across my chin and throat, until he finally loosens his grip a little and I can finally get enough air to speak.

"So, did I earn my bonus?"

The boss gives me a look as hard as granite. "Like you do it for the money."

He lets go of my throat, and that's my cue to take out my handkerchief and dry off my face, but I stay on my knees even after he's stood up and started straightening his suit. Maybe it takes a bit of convincing to get me down here, but I know better than to get to my feet before he gives the order. I've been around too long to make that mistake. Still, I wouldn't mind seeing someone else make it. Someone brash and greedy and shameless. Someone who looks like he'd take whatever you had to throw at him, for the right price.

"That Larry guy," I say, grinning up at the old man. "Wonder what kind of skills _he's_ got to offer."

"Yes," the boss says, gesturing for me to get up. "I'll be interested to hear what you make of him."

"What _I_ make of him?" Maybe I'm still lightheaded, but it takes me a minute to catch up with what he's saying, and as I get to my feet, the boss is just standing there smiling that cold smile at me. Then the penny finally drops. " _I'm_ doing the vetting?"

"Yes, you are." He says it so matter-of-factly, like he's telling me the sky's blue, like he isn't throwing me right in at the deep end.

All I can think to say is "Oh," and then I stand there like an idiot, while the wheels spin desperately in my head.

 

* * *

 

"Where is he, then?" Larry stands there in the doorway with his hands on his hips, looking past me to the empty chair behind the desk. "I want to talk to the head man, so just show me in and get lost, small fry."

_Small fry_. This guy's six inches shorter than me and probably five years younger, and he's mouthing off at me like I'm the office junior. I'm going to have trouble keeping a straight face.

"You don't get to see the boss today," I say, giving him a nice even smile. "You've got to jump a few hoops first, like everybody else." And yeah, that smile of mine's all the wider because the line I'm giving him isn't strictly true, because I can still remember how it felt to have the boss's hands on me when _I_ got the once-over, because in the three years I've been here I've seen maybe half a dozen guys get the same personal treatment. It's about as wide as it could get without breaking into a smirk.

"Yeah?" Larry says, shrugging. "What kind of hoops are we talking about?" Only I can see in his eyes he knows exactly what I mean.

I lock the door behind him, and by the time I've gone back over to stand by the desk again, he's looking me up and down like I'm a meal he can't wait to get stuck into. It's the same look I've seen on a hundred boys like him, so eager and greedy it's almost laughable.

"We need to know what lengths you're willing to go to," I tell him, leaning back against the edge of the table. They're not my words, I've borrowed them from the last time I sat in on one of these interviews, but even if they ring hollow coming out of my mouth, Larry doesn't seem to notice. He just smiles, and his eyes flit down across my suit again, like he's trying to price the whole lot up. I guess the boss was right to spend a bit of money dressing me. With the way this guy's looking at me, it's going to be worth every penny.

Larry laughs, with a glint in his eyes about as subtle as the chalk stripe he's wearing. "Well, that all depends on how much you're paying."

When I take out my wallet, I can almost feel his eyes on it, on my hands as I pull out a couple of notes, searing into my skin like white-hot little torches. I wonder if this is how the boss feels, how Joe feels, when they deal with chisellers personally. I wonder if they get the same sour kick out of it. I wonder if the buzz of it gets them as hot as it's getting me right now.

"This is for starters," I say, meeting his gaze with a nice hot stare of my own. "Whether you get any more… Well, that all depends on how you perform."

I'm tempted to throw the money down onto the floor, just to make him stoop to pick it up, but we're not at that stage yet. We're still playing nice, for now. So I hold the notes out, but just barely, close enough that he has to step forward to take them out of my hand. And now with about a foot of thick silent air between us, with money in his hand and the promise of more, now he looks hungrier than ever. When I put my hands on his shoulders, all I have to do is give him a little push, and he drops to his knees like clockwork.

"You're eager," I laugh.

He looks up at me as he unbuttons my fly, with his eyebrow raised like I'm stating the obvious. "Don't see any point in wasting time."

"Good," I say, only half-lying. Sure, I'd prefer it if he needed a bit of strong-arming, but guys who follow orders without arguing have their own uses, even if they're less fun than the difficult type. "Get to work, then."

His palms feel rough against my skin, like maybe he's been earning his money doing harder work than this, but there's enough skill in them to make it clear he's no amateur. He strokes me a few times, slow and measured, like he's testing the waters, and then he dips his head and takes my cock into his mouth, and now I'm not thinking about his job history any more. He takes it smooth and deep right from the start, like he's ravenous for it, like it's this he's really interested in and not the cash in his pocket. No, he's no amateur, he knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how to make it good. He keeps his fist nice and firm around my cock, working the shaft slowly while he sucks on the head, and between the heat of his mouth and the tightness of his fingers, it's all I can do to lean back and let him do his job. I want to grab hold of that yellow-blond hair and twist it til he yelps. I want to tear that cheap suit off him and spread him out over the desk. I want to pin him down and fuck him rough enough that it'd take my whole pay-packet to take his mind off how raw I left him.

I shouldn't make it that easy for him. I shouldn't do his job for him, no matter how tempting he makes it. I should lean back and leave it all to him, I should make him throw everything he's got at this, I should work him like a dog, but I can't resist. I want to feel him struggling to take it. I want to make him cough and choke. I want to feel those calloused fingers clutching my legs like he's hanging on for dear life, and even if it's the wrong way to play this, even if I'm going off-script, I can't keep my hands to myself. I grab a fistful of his hair with one hand and grip the back of his neck with the other, hauling him up and down at the pace I want, fast and rough and ruthless. I shove him down and hold him there, letting him feel every bit of strength I've got over him, and he takes all of it, every inch, without a single complaint. His throat is so hot and wet around me, so soft and smooth, and now I can feel myself slipping, now there's no turning back. Interview or no interview, I couldn't hold off now if I tried. I hold him down as I come, and when I tell him to swallow, he makes a muffled little sound that could be a groan of satisfaction or a scornful laugh.

"So," he says, barely stopping to catch his breath once I'm done, "now we've gotten that out of the way, when do I get my appointment with the head man?"

He's up on his feet and watching me with unimpressed eyes before I've even finished buttoning my trousers. Well, he's not all talk, I'll give him that. He's got backbone, and we need guys with backbone, guys who can hold their nerve. But still, there's something about how sure he is that he passed, something about the way he stands there smiling like this is a done deal that riles me right up. Bravado, I like. Real arrogance, though, the kind without a layer of doubt underneath it— _that_ I'm less keen on. To me it looks like a liability. To me it looks like a good way of getting yourself taken out, and bringing your associates along with you.

I give Larry a neutral smile, open the door and nod toward the corridor.

"Go on," I say, wishing I had half Joe's knack for throwing people out. "We'll be in touch."


	2. Chapter 2

He lets the phone ring exactly three times before he picks up, just like the last time, just like all the times before. Three rings, every time. He's paying attention, he's around when we tell him to be, but he wants us to know he's not desperate. Wants us to _think_ he's not desperate, I mean. Maybe he's not jumping up at the first ring, maybe he's not answering breathy and eager, but even if he tries to play it cool, I can see right through him. I know his type. He's been sitting by the phone, waiting for the call like a schoolboy waiting for his crush to ring. That's as clear as day. As clear as the greed in his eyes when he walked through the door.

"Yeah?" he says, with a put-on yawn in his voice, like I might not have noticed it's three in the morning.

"Go to the phonebox opposite the Gaumont." I give him the order, flat and neutral. "Be there by half three."

"Alright," Larry says, and now there's none of that drowsiness in his voice. He's probably sitting there in his jacket and coat already, waiting to go.

I hang up and lean back in my chair. This kind of trial might be tough on the new boy, but it's not a barrel of laughs from my end, either. I don't really relish the thought of staying up all night to keep him running around on wild goose chases, but I guess at least I'm warm and dry. At least I'm not the one driving from phonebox to phonebox, getting soaked in the rain, being run ragged all night. At least I've already taken my turn on that merry-go-round. I let my head rest against the back of the chair and close my eyes, picturing Larry driving into town, trying to make it there in time without getting caught speeding. He knows by now what'll be waiting for him when he gets to the phonebox, he knows he's in for a long wait and then another call, another place to be and another deadline. He twigged on to the point of all this right away, so now it's just a matter of seeing how much he can take, whether he's going to get frustrated and tell me to shove it before we're done.

So far, I'd say not. He doesn't like it, I can tell that much, but he's done everything I told him to without a complaint. I think he's too smart to let his temper get the better of him this early on. He's too sharp, too ambitious. Who knows, maybe he's ambitious enough that one day _he'll_ be the one doing the phoning. I wonder if he'll make it that far. He's got the drive for it, alright, but that kind of ambition makes a guy blind to whose toes he's stepping on. I don't know if Larry's shrewd enough to stay off the most important ones. I don't know, but I wouldn't bet on it.

I open my eyes and look at the clock on the mantel. Twenty-five past three. Early, but if the last few nights are anything to go by, he'll be ready and waiting right now. I dial the number, and sure enough, three rings go by before he picks up.

"About time," Larry says, as crisp and sharp as if it was three in the afternoon. "I was getting bored waiting."

 

* * *

 

He's better than I expected. According to him, he's never done a group job before, but you wouldn't know it to look at him. He's kneeling there with one guy in front of him and one to the side, giving them the same thorough attention he gave me that day in the office, and he knows how to work it perfectly so that neither of them gets bored waiting for their next turn in his mouth. He's as good with his left hand as with his right, and I know first-hand that he's even better with his tongue, but there's one thing he _can't_ do. He can't take a good beating and like it.

"You going to keep running that mouth, are you?" The guy I'm working presses forward, leaning his arm a bit harder against my throat. He's got his sleeves rolled up, and I can feel the hair on his forearm scratching like wire against my skin every time he moves.

"You going to give me a reason to stop?" I smirk up at him, and give him a little push in the chest. Not that I'm expecting it to take—this guy's all muscle, and a shove from me isn't going to move him an inch—but he appreciates the gesture anyway. He pulls back and brings his fist up into my stomach, and it lands like a sledgehammer, knocking all the air out of me. He's not content with winding me, though. He gives me another, just to make sure, right on top of the first, and then his arm moves off my throat and that fist comes up to say hello to my jaw, and now the whole top half of my body feels like it's burning.

"On your knees," he says, standing back so that the only thing keeping me upright now is the wall behind me.

"Sure," I say, shrugging. "If I feel like it."

His hand tangles in my hair, twisting a fistful of it hard enough to make me wince, and the next thing I know I'm stumbling forward onto my knees. I land next to Larry, hitting the floor with a thud, and maybe I'm imagining things, but I swear I saw him jump. I keep an eye on him while the guy with the muscles sets about slapping the smirk off my face, and sure enough, every time that hand comes down across my cheek, Larry flinches like he's feeling it too. I can't help laughing. Who'd have guessed a chiseller like him would have such a weak stomach?

"Think it's funny, do you?" The guy with the muscles gives me a swift backhand, hard and fast. I can see Larry wincing out of the corner of my eye, and it gives me a bitter little rush of satisfaction. Maybe most of my spiel is for the benefit of my sour-tempered friend here, but if I can catch Larry with the rebounds, that's fine with me. That's just fine.

"Just enjoying myself," I say, grinning up at him. "You got a problem with that?"

He belts me again, and again Larry's brow furrows and again his mouth quirks, and all in all I'm enjoying this enough that when the guy with the muscles shoves me over onto my hands and knees I want to complain and ask him what the rush is, couldn't we keep on like this for a bit longer? But instead I bait him for taking his time, telling him as I kneel there that he's kept me waiting too long, that I'm getting bored, that he must be slow on account of his advanced age, and by the time he's wrenched my trousers down and lubed me up, the guy's about ready to throttle me. He puts one heavy hand on my back to hold me still, and when he slides his cock into my ass, he goes in fast and deep enough to make my breath catch in my throat. I cover that with a laugh, and smirk back at him over my shoulder.

"Come on, what are you holding back for?" I say, and then I turn back to look Larry's way when I give him my next line. "You're not going to break me, I'm not made of glass." And that lands right on the mark, I can see the flare of anger in Larry's eyes, lighting them up bright and hot just for a moment.

"You're going to keep earning this right to the end, aren't you?" the guy with the muscles says, hooking his arm around my throat, pushing me to the edge of choking as he starts to fuck me.

"Right to the end," I say, with a hoarse little laugh. "Unless you can shut me up first."

He lets go of my throat and shoves me forward, holding my face down so that the carpet scrapes against the raw skin of my cheek every time he thrusts into me. When I wince and try to pull back, he just laughs and leans heavier on me, letting me feel every bit of weight and strength he's got over me. The way he fucks me, the way he stabs his cock into me, it's like he's trying to bruise me inside and out, like this is just another way of beating me, just another way of hurting me. Maybe a boy like Larry would be scrabbling to get away, but me, all I can think about is how to push it further, how to push this guy right up to his limit, how to milk him for every drop of cruelty he's got without overstepping the line.

A loud moan cuts through my train of thought, and when I look up, Larry's sitting astride the old guy on the sofa, riding him like his life depends on it. Maybe I don't like the kid, but I've got to hand it to him, he knows how to catch your eye and how to keep hold of it. The kind of show he's putting on, he ought to be up on a stage somewhere. His hair sways when he moves, catching the light like cheap yellow satin. His lips are open and wet, and I can see a flash of his tongue as he moans again, bright and lurid as red velvet. His hands move constantly, sliding down across his chest and stomach, across his thighs, brushing over his cock and then flitting away, like every inch of his skin needs to be touched and he doesn't know where to start. He squirms and groans as if the old guy's cock is the best he's ever had, as if there's nothing in his head except the need to be fucked.

"That's right, just sit back and let me give you your money's worth," he says, leaning forward and bracing himself against the old guy's legs. Then he opens those half-closed eyes, and looks right at me. "I'm the best in town, and I won't waste your time with any of that tired old tough-guy rubbish."

It's a well-aimed shot, but he's firing blanks. When I was his age I would have seen red. I'd have given Larry an earful and probably a smack in the face for his trouble. I'd have forgotten all about the job and gotten us both thrown out for bad behaviour before he'd thought up his next line, but if Larry wants to wind me up he'll have to try a lot harder than that. I've got bigger things to think about.

"That the best you can do?" I twist around the best I can to look back at the guy with the muscles. "Or are you just taking it easy on me?"

He yanks me up by the hair and slides his other hand nice and tight around my throat. Between that and the way he keeps slamming into me, I don't even have to fake a groan, it wells up inside me the minute his fingers start squeezing. He's getting close, fucking me in rough, short thrusts, tensing up and tightening his grip, and all I need to do is give him a little push.

"Come on, stop pulling your punches, give it to m—"

He cuts me right off, squeezing my throat hard enough to make me yelp, holding me still and hammering into me hard and deep as he comes. When he's finished, he pulls out slowly, and I can't help laughing at that, because it's the gentlest thing he's done all night. He laughs too, and gives my shoulder a squeeze as he stands up. I guess I must have done alright.

Larry's still going at it, still riding that old guy on the sofa like he could go all night, so I slip out and get cleaned up on my own. I'm sore and aching, and I could really do with sitting down while I wait for him, so I go and sit in the hallway on one of those hard little chairs that look like museum pieces. By the time Larry finally comes downstairs I'm more than ready to get going.

"What d'you think, then?" I say, opening the front door and going on ahead of him. "You reckon you could do this kind of job regularly?"

"Why not? It's easy money," Larry says, as he follows me down the steps and out onto the street. Then he dips his hand into his inside pocket, and brings out a glitzy silver pocket-watch. "And the bonus wasn't bad, either."

I stop dead and wheel around to face him.

"Hey, just what kind of amateur setup do you think this is?" I say, keeping my voice as low as I can. I don't want to make a scene. We'll have enough of that when the watch's owner realises it's gone. So I quietly grab hold of Larry's collar, and quietly shove him up against the railings until his back's pressed flush to the ironwork. "You think you can go in there and help yourself to whatever you feel like?"

"Don't make me laugh," Larry says, rolling his eyes. "Those old guys expect it, it's just par for the course, isn't it?

"Not when you're there on the boss's orders, it isn't." I shove him a bit harder, and maybe the railings rattling like that isn't exactly as quiet as I was aiming for, but every word Larry says shortens my fuse a bit more, and now I can't help raising my voice. "How d'you think it looks if the boys he sends along can't keep it professional? How d'you think it reflects on us? How d'you think it reflects on the boss?"

"Oh, listen to yourself." Larry scoffs. " _The boss_ this, _the boss_ that… You're scared stiff of him, aren't you? Well, you just stand back and watch, I'll show you how to handle him. When I'm done, I'll have the old man eating out the palm of my hand, don't you w—"

I've thrown the punch before I even realise what I'm doing. It catches him square in the mouth, and it's a good job I've already got him pressed up against the railings, because without them I reckon he'd have been flat on his back. As it is, he just leans there, glaring up at me, with a sneer curling his bloodied lips.

"No, you won't get near the old man any time soon." I say, taking my handkerchief out and cleaning off my knuckles. "You're nowhere near good enough for that."

 

* * *

 

I'm smiling to myself as I get out of the car. I'll be in no state to drive home by the end of the afternoon, I should've taken a cab, but I guess it's too late to worry about that now. Maybe if I behave myself, the boss'll let me sleep it off upstairs before he kicks me out. Maybe I'll get to stay for the evening. Maybe—

"Fancy seeing you here," a voice says from the top of the steps, and I know before I look up who it's going to be. I've got that voice etched into my mind like a record I never want to hear again.

"I'd leave this open for you," Larry says with a little chuckle, as he shuts the front door behind him, "only I don't think you're going to be needed this afternoon after all."

"Is that right?" I say, standing there like a fool while he swans down the steps toward me. It's obvious what he's been up to in there, any fool could see. The marks on his neck. The tousled hair, the rumpled suit. The sore red lips. The boss's touch is all over Larry, clear as dusted fingerprints.

"Yeah, that's right, so you might as well go home," Larry says, walking right by me without pausing, without even flinching, and I can smell the boss's scent on him as he passes. "And if I were you, small fry, I'd start looking for another job."

I want to chase after him. I want to grab hold of him and make him eat that threat, word by word. I want to make him choke on it, but instead I force myself to turn around and head up into the townhouse. I'm going to take care of whatever the old man wants me around for this afternoon. I'm going to take care of whatever he needs, and then I'm going to take care of Larry.


	3. Chapter 3

When I was younger, I would have gone after Larry the same day. I'd have tracked him down that night and started throwing my weight around, trying to scare him off. I'd have given him a good pasting, probably landed the both of us in a cell for the night, and then the very next day he'd have carried right on trying to sideline me. When I was younger, I barely knew how to handle _myself_ , let alone how to handle a little chiseller like him, but if there's one thing I've learned from the boss, it's how to pick the right moment and the right method for each problem that needs solving. And Larry _is_ my problem, my mess to clean up. I waved him in, and I'm going to see him off.

I've spent the last few weeks hanging back, working alongside Larry like I've no interest in fighting, like I've decided to just let him do his thing. I've sent him on soft job after soft job, given him pay-packet after pay-packet, and I've taken every snide comment the guy made with a smile and a pat on the shoulder, like it's nothing to me, like I've accepted that he's here to stay. I've strung him along for as long as I could, and now we're at the point where I need to start giving him tougher jobs or start explaining to the boss why it just so happens that Larry always gets the day off when there's something big on the cards. Now it's make or break. Now it’s time to go digging, and I've got just the shovel in mind.

Lucky for me, he's not a hard man to find. Eddie's everybody's friend, and he tells his friends everything, and the end result is he might as well have posted his itinerary on my front door. He's considerate enough to be regular in his habits, too. On Saturday nights he's a fixture in one of the cheap little dives near the docks, ten til two, like clockwork. That's plenty of time for me and him to get to know each other. Plenty of time for me to get what I need.

I've been here a few times myself, years ago. It looked bigger then, but besides that it's still the same creaky little place I remember. Covered in dust, loose floorboards everywhere you might want to stand, with a crowd that's about half easy-going pros and half boozed-up sailors who don't take kindly to losing. Had to make my exit at top speed, the last time I was here. I don't fancy a repeat performance tonight, but this time I'm not here to make money. This time I'm here to lose it, as much as it takes to get Eddie to trust me. If this works, a month's pay wouldn't be too high a price. _If_ it works.

Eddie's about as hard to spot as he is to find. I catch sight of him as soon as I come through the door. He's as broad as the two guys standing next to him put together, a head taller than each of them, and he's laughing loud enough that I could have navigated my way to him with my eyes shut.

"You'll have the shirt off my back," he's telling the dealer, as I elbow my way in beside him. He's laughing like this is the most fun he's had all day. "You'll have the shirt clean off my back, you will!"

"Bad night?" I say, putting my money down.

"The worst!" he says, grinning.

It turns out my luck isn't any better than his. We spend the next half hour competing to see who can lose the most money the fastest, and by the time Eddie's starting to run dry, we're the best of friends.

"Here," I say, shoving a couple of notes at him. "It'd be a shame if you had to call it a night this early."

"Thanks, buddy!" he says, putting my twenties down on the table so they can catch up with the rest. "You're a good guy, you are."

That gets me a little. I must be getting soft. Since when do I care about being a good guy? Well, I'm not going to let a bit of sympathy push me off-course, so I force my mind off Eddie and back onto Larry, back onto the way he smiled when he made that threat, the way he looked at me like I was nothing, like he'd have no trouble at all shuffling me off onto the sidelines. I think about that, and now Eddie's no innocent bystander. He's just a big, dumb stepping stone on the way to giving Larry what he deserves.

"Hey, you don't recognise me, do you?" I say, giving Eddie a nice wide grin.

"Sure I do, sure I do," he says, with great big blank eyes like a Labrador. "You're… You're…"

"Larry's friend, remember?" I nod, like he got the answer right first time. "From the other day?"

"Sure, _Larry's_ friend, I remember!" He claps me on the shoulder, and I have to brace myself against the table to keep from staggering. "Any pal of Larry's is a pal of mine."

"Then we're all pals," I say, patting him on the one of those thick arms. "You seen him around lately?"

He cocks his head to one side, still smiling that broad smile. "Who?"

"Larry," I say, trying to keep my tone even. "You seen your pal Larry down here lately?"

"Nah," Eddie grins, shaking his head. "He's too busy for that, he says. He's got big plans, that Larry. Too busy for crummy dice games, that's what he said." And he laughs like it's the best line he heard all year.

"He's got big plans, alright," I laugh. "Come a long way, hasn't he? Too busy for a crummy dice joint now, but back in the old days…"

"Yeah!" Eddie laughs with me. "Yeah, back in the old days, he was down here all the time, just me and him, couldn't keep him away!"

"The things you and him used to get up to, eh?"

"Yeah," Eddie says, all wistful and soft now. "Yeah, we used to get up to some shenanigans."

"That time you and him…" I trail off, grinning. "He told me all about it, that close shave you and him had."

"Oh, _that_ , yeah!" Eddie guffaws, loud enough to get everyone around us looking. "Thought he was done for, I did. One sap to the head, and that night-watchman was as dead as a doornail. I said to Larry, you must be stronger than you look!"

"Yeah, he must be," I laugh along with him, trying to keep the smile on my face nice and light. "Close one, eh?"

"Yeah!" Eddie says, nodding. "I said to him, imagine if you went down for this, just for the sake of some crummy jewellers, wouldn't that be something?"

"Yeah, wouldn't it?" I say, nodding too. Wouldn't it just.

 

* * *

 

It didn't take much to find out the details. I didn't even have to talk to any of our friendly coppers. Just a bit of conversation with the locals who'd been around at the time, a few drinks bought, and it all came tumbling out. Not enough to actually prove anything, but enough to get an investigation off to a flying start. Enough to put the wind up anyone with sense.

When I rang him and told him to meet me in town, he sounded put out, like I'd spoiled his night, like he'd got better things to be doing, but he still left right away. I watched him run out into the street and flag down a taxi like he was late for a big date. I probably should have felt bad about that, but when it comes to guys like Larry I don't feel much of anything. I just want the loose ends tidying up. I'm going to give him every reason to leave, and no reason at all to come back, and if that means packing his things for him, then that's fine by me. I'd have broken in if I had to. I'd have snuck in through the window if it came to it, but I guess it's a sign of the times that all I had to do was go in and ask the desk clerk for the key. That's the beauty of putting new guys up in our places. Easy to get them in, easy to get them out. The clerk just said hello and gave me a mild little smile when he saw the suitcase in my hand. "Checking out, is he?"

Yeah, he's checking out, alright.

The room was so bare I'd have thought it was vacant, if it hadn't been for the unmade bed. Besides that, the only trace of Larry was three cheap suits hanging in the wardrobe and a bit of jewellery he obviously hadn't gotten around to selling yet. I shoved the whole lot into the suitcase and got out of there. Even the bare room had too much of Larry in it for my tastes, so I made the call from the hotel lobby.

"You're late," he said, as soon as he picked up. "I've been waiting ages, you must be getting slow."

If he thought there was anything fishy about being told to go to the train station, he didn't show it. "Sure, platform four, whatever you say," he said, rushing me along, like this was just another place I'd picked out of the hat. Just another hoop to jump through, something to wrap up quickly so he can get on with the rest of his night. Well, he's not the only one in a rush. I want him out, and I want him out now. Every minute I spend waiting on the platform for him is a minute too long, and they crawl by, like every second has an hour crammed into it. An hour of thinking about how I never should have let this happen in the first place. An hour of thinking about how I can stop it happening again.

When Larry finally arrives, he hurries along the platform like he's got no time to waste, but as soon as he spots me, he slows right down to a stroll. Now you'd think he had all the time in the world. Now you'd think we were getting together for a nice day out. When he reaches me, he's got that cocky little smirk fixed perfectly in place.

"Going away, are you?" he laughs, looking down at the suitcase. "Good, I like a guy who knows when he's beaten."

There's nothing in that for me, so I let it pass. "In a couple of minutes a train's going to pull in here," I say, putting the case down next to him. "When it leaves, you're going to be on it."

"Oh, am I? And why's that?"

"Because I've been nice enough to pack your stuff and pay your way." I take hold of his lapel and push the train ticket into his top pocket. "And because a fresh start in another town is better than doing time."

"Time?" he says, nice and casual, like he's got no idea what I'm talking about.

"Burglary'd get you a good stretch, but you _killed_ a guy, Larry."

The smirk on his face doesn't falter, but his eyes look cold and blank now, like hard blue marbles. He doesn't say anything. He just stands there and watches me talk.

"How much _do_ you get for manslaughter these days? Ten years? Fifteen? And that's if a judge'll buy you never meant to kill him." I put my hand on his arm, and I can feel him shaking. "I wouldn't bet my life on that. Would you?"

The train pulls in behind him, and when he looks around at it, for a moment I think he's decided to call it quits. Then he turns back to me, and now that smirk is wide and sharp. Now his eyes are full of life again.

"Maybe not," Larry says, shrugging my hand off. "But if I'm going down, I'm taking the lot of you with me. I'll sing like a bird the first chance I get."

"About _what_ , exactly? About how some guy took you to a few parties, introduced you to a few old men, helped you earn a bit of extra cash? You've got nothing worth spilling, nothing but a bit of gossip. Try the tabloids, kid, you'll have better luck with them."

He just looks at me, long and hard, like that first time in the office, only now he must be trying to work out whether I'd really go this far. Whether it's worth the risk to try me and find out. Whether a first class ticket away from here is enough to buy him off. I can almost hear his brain crunching through the calculations and weighing up the odds.

"Fair enough," he says, finally. "I was getting bored with this place, anyway."

He snatches up the suitcase, spins on his heel and steps up into the carriage before I even have a chance to gloat. I watch him go and find his seat. I watch him put his suitcase in the rack and sit down. I watch him staring out the opposite window. I stand there watching until the train is gone, until I'm sure it pulled out with him still on it, until I'm sure this is all over and done with, and then I put Larry out of my mind once and for all, and start heading home. I should never have approved him in the first place. I should have turned him down flat and saved myself a lot of trouble. But it doesn't matter, I've tidied up the mess I made, and that's the end of it.

 

* * *

 

I'm smiling to myself as I unlock the door. Larry's gone and that's one less thing to worry about. I feel like I should be celebrating, but I can't decide whether to go out and get some company, or stay in and ring one of my regulars. It's early, not even ten yet. Maybe I've got time for both. I close the door behind me and reach out for the light switch, and that's when he grabs me. I cry out, shouting at the top of my voice like a kid watching a horror film, jumping and trying to get away, but it's no use. He's got hold of me tight, one hand on the back of my neck, one crushing my wrist, and no matter how much I struggle they stayed locked around me. I push against him, trying to knock him back, but I can't move him even an inch. I try to kick him, and my heel connects with his shin, but he doesn't even make a sound. It's like fighting an iron wall. All I can do is hurt myself flailing against him.

He doesn't say a word. He just spins me around and shoves me back, and I bring my arms up in front of my face just in time to block the fist that comes at me out of the dark. If I hadn't put my forearm in the way that would've caught me in the mouth, but it doesn't matter, there's another punch right on the heels of the first, and this one lands square in my stomach, heavy and hard. I drop to my knees. Whoever's throwing these punches knows what he's doing. It feels like I ran into a brick wall at full pelt. I sag forward onto the carpet, but I guess I'm not moving fast enough, because his foot comes down hard on my back, and he grinds me down against the floor like he's stamping out a cigarette butt. Then he steps back, and the light comes on. I twist around and look at him, but I don't even get a chance to open my mouth before he's on me again.

"Careless." Joe says, and the full stop on the end is a heavy kick in the ribs. The force of it turns me over, and I roll onto my side, wrapping my arms around my chest.

"Sloppy." he says, and his foot swings up into my stomach. The air rushes out of me, and pain rushes in to fill the gap, and I just lay there, curled up and clutching myself, coughing and wheezing, while he stands over me. When he reaches down and grabs hold of my collar, I'm too slow to get out of the way. I grab his arm and try to pull myself free, but my hand just hangs there like a shirt-cuff around his wrist, flimsy and loose. He doesn't even try to shake me off.

"Stupid." he says, bringing the back of his hand down across my face. My cheekbone burns like he's doused it with hot oil, and all I can feel is the pain throbbing through it, like acid flooding through my bones and filling up my veins. Everywhere he's touched me is aching and burning, but the worst of it all is the way he's talking. There's no fire in his voice. It's flat and cold and hard, just like it is when he's on a job. Like it is when he's dealing with strangers. Like it is when he's sending a message that needs to get through loud and clear.

"If Larry had any spine," Joe says, shaking me by the collar, "he'd be sitting in that chair right now, watching one of his friends work you over."

_No, he wouldn't_ , I want to say, but I don't get a chance. Joe's fist hits my mouth, and the words get stuck behind it. I look up at him, and he must be able to see it in my eyes, the way I want to argue, because his hand comes down again, heavy and hard across my cheek.

"Thought you'd been so clever, didn't you?" He throws me back down onto the floor and kicks me in the ribs again, hard enough to knock me back against the sofa. I reach out for the arm of it, trying to get some purchase to push myself up, but Joe's having none of that. He grabs hold of my wrist and twists my arm back, and all of a sudden I'm face down again, clawing at the carpet with my free hand while he wrenches my arm up behind me.

"Only you didn't think it through," he says, kneeling on my back and twisting my arm up higher.

I want to say _yeah, yeah, maybe you're right_ , but all that comes out is a strangled little yelp.

"Idiot," Joe spits, and now there's a crack in his voice, now it's louder and rougher. "What if Larry'd blown his top? What if he'd gotten scared and decided to shut you up for good? Did you even realise he was packing?"

I try to catch my breath, to get the words together, but all I get out is "Well, I—", before Joe wrenches my arm again and I can't help crying out.

"You didn't even think about it, did you?" He lets go of my arm and grabs hold of my hair, lifting me up to my knees and turning me round like a ragdoll. "All this time and you're still nothing but a stupid kid."

"Yeah," I say, looking up at him. I want to flinch away from the hard expression on his face, but I force myself to look him in the eyes. "Yeah, you're right."

"If you got yourself hurt…" he trails off, twisting my hair tighter in his fist. "If you got yourself hurt, the boss wouldn't like that, and I'm not going to let a punk like you spoil the old man's day." He brings his other hand up to my throat and squeezes tight enough to get me swallowing and coughing in his grip. "So you'd better get your act together."

"Okay," I say, nodding as best I can. "Okay, Joe, I'm sorry."

"You don't want to carry a heater, that's fine." He drops me down onto the floor, and stands over me like he's looking down at a stain on the carpet. "But you make sure you've got backup who does, alright?"

"Alright." I stay where he dropped me. I stay exactly still, just lying there looking up at him. I watch him turn around and head for the door, but by the time his hand's on the doorknob I've already made up my mind. This is the first time I've been alone in my apartment with Joe, and I don't care how bruised and sore I already am, I'm not letting this chance slip through my fingers.

"Is that it?" I call after him as he opens the door. "You're going to smack me around and leave it at that? What's the matter, you getting soft in your old age?"

And yeah, it's a flimsy line, cheap and laughable, but it's the best I can do, and I've just got to hope Joe's in a charitable mood.

"Soft?" he says, turning around to face me. His eyes are hard, but his lips are curled into a nasty smile, the smile I always see right before he gives me a pasting. "You're going to regret that."

He kicks the door shut behind him, and I've barely pushed myself up off the floor before he's grabbed hold of my collar and yanked me to my feet. I bring my hands up and grab onto his arm, making like I'm trying to pull myself free. "Go on then," I say, leaning against him even as I'm tugging at his wrist. " _Make_ me regret it."

He doesn't reply. He just shoves me back against the wall and holds me there, squeezing my throat nice and tight until I can't help groaning and squirming against him. Then his free hand slides down between us and cups my crotch, and when my hips jerk forward, he just laughs and shakes his head.

"Come on…" I murmur, tipping my head back and arch my throat into his grip. "Come on, Joe, don't make me beg…"

He lets go of me, and the back of his hand comes down across my face again, and the next thing I know I'm bent over the back of the sofa and Joe's yanking my trousers down, kicking my legs apart, pinning me in place with a hand on my back. I stay where he puts me, just watching over my shoulder as he unfastens his fly and takes out his cock, and by the time he's halfway through lubing up, I'm biting my lip to keep from begging. Well, maybe I'm not saying it out loud, but he knows exactly how badly I need it. He knows me inside and out. When he pushes a couple of fingers into my ass, I try to swallow the moan that wells up in me, but he's not having that. He won't let me keep even a scrap of pride. He twists and scissors his fingers inside me until I can't keep quiet, and when that moan finally spills out of my lips, he just laughs and pulls his hand away.

"Made for this, weren't you?"

I want to answer him, but the words won't come. Then he lines his cock up against my ass and presses forward, and I can't think anymore, let alone talk. He feeds his cock into me slowly, filling me up inch by inch until I'm clawing at the sofa, squirming underneath him, struggling to catch my breath. Once he's all the way in, I get about two seconds to get used to it before he starts to move. He fucks me fast and brutal right from the start, like he doesn't care if he tears me up, like it doesn't matter if he breaks me in two, and I can hear him laughing that nasty laugh every time he drives a wince of pain or a desperate moan out of me. I can hear him laughing, and I can feel him tightening his grip around me, and before I know it I'm pushing back against him just as hard, throwing myself back onto his cock as much as he'll let me, as much as I can with those hands holding me down.

"Get up," he orders, but I don't get a say either way. He just hauls me upright, shoves me up against the wall, and keeps on fucking me like he wants to break me in two. He keeps one hand on the back of my head, grinding my face into the paintwork, and the other clamped tight on my hip. I'm going nowhere, and that heats me right up to boiling point. When I slide a hand down and take hold of my cock, Joe spots it right away, and he doesn't waste any time letting me know what he thinks about it, either.

"Filthy little bitch," he laughs, close to my ear. "Can't get enough, can you?"

The only reply I can manage is a long, ragged moan. I can't pretend I'm not desperate now. I can't do anything except plead and beg and urge him on, and the words keep spilling out of me, but I barely know what I'm saying anymore. I beg him to give it to me, to use me however he likes, to fuck me hard and make it hurt. I tell him how much I want it, how much I need it, how much I love his cock, how I'll do anything if only he'll keep reaming my ass like this, exactly like this, deep and hard and brutal.

"You'll do everything I tell you to, you cheap little punk." He hooks his arm around my neck and squeezes tight, dragging me up to the edge of choking. "You'll do anything I say, or I'll knock you into next week."

And that's too much, I can't hold off now. I cling onto his arm with my free hand as I start to come, leaning back against him as the feeling rips through me, pushing back as hard as I can, taking his cock as deep as I can, yelping and crying out the whole time like he's killing me. He waits until I'm done, and then the minute I sag forward against the wall, his grip on me tightens and all of a sudden I'm getting it twice as hard and three times as vicious. They might do things differently, but that's one thing Joe and the boss have got in common, they both know how to wear you out and then keep on pushing, how to wring every bit of pain out of you, how to use you like you're nothing but a plaything, no mercy and no holding back. Well, I might be spent and aching and out of breath, but I've played this game enough times already to know exactly what my next move has to be.

"Stop playing around and give it to me," I say, twisting around to smirk at him. "Or is that all you've got?"

The noise he makes is halfway between a grunt and a growl, rough and deep, like a snarl from a guard-dog that can't wait to tear me to pieces. If I wasn't spent already it'd be perfectly pitched to get me hot and bothered, but as it is, it just tells me I'm doing this right.

"Come on, I thought you were going to make it hurt," I sneer, and maybe there's a catch in my voice, but I keep right on going. "You want to break me, you'll have to try harder than—"

His arm tightens around my throat, and he slides the other one around my ribs, and as he comes it feels like I'm being crushed by one of those big snakes they have at the zoo, the ones that look like they could snap your neck without thinking about it. He holds me in place there until he's done, until he's run out of names to call me and air to squeeze out of me, and when he's finished I feel like it's only that arm around my neck keeping me upright. As soon as he lets go of me, my knees give way and I drop to the floor as heavy and clumsy as if he really did choke the life out of me. I kneel there, trying to catch my breath, listening to Joe dusting himself down and straightening his suit, wondering if he'll take me back to the townhouse with him. Wondering if the old man'll want to see me too. Wondering if I'm in for a worse time, if this was just the warm-up. Then Joe grabs hold of my arm, squeezing tight around the worst of the bruises, and he shakes me hard like he's trying to wake me up.

"You'd better not forget what I told you," he says, bringing the back of his hand down across my cheek one more time. "I see you getting sloppy again, you'll be sorry."

He lets go of me, drops me to the floor like a cigarette butt, and then he's gone before I can say a word.

For a minute or so I stay where he dropped me. I kneel there and think about the state I'd be in right now if it _had_ been Larry and his friends that jumped me. I get up and lock the door, and I think about how badly it could've gone that day in the office, if Larry hadn't been so reluctant to pull the trigger. I close the curtains and turn off the lights, thinking about all the times I've had a heater in my face and nothing in my hands except my blackjack. I go and lie down on the bed, but I know I'm not going to sleep tonight. I just lie there and close my eyes and think about backup. 


End file.
